


Digesting slows me down

by Fabulae



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 221B Ficlet, Domestic Fluff, Domestic John, Domestic Sherlock, Get Together, Happy Ending, M/M, doctors orders, is my blindspot, pre slash, this has been sitting in my computer for ages
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-13
Updated: 2016-03-13
Packaged: 2018-05-26 11:08:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6236272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fabulae/pseuds/Fabulae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just a random day in 221B; John is having some chicken korma, Sherlock is playing solitaire.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Digesting slows me down

**«Digesting slows me down».**

**A day in the life of.**

 

«Sherlock, takeout’s here!». John shouted from the kitchen, too busy attempting to free some space out of the mess that was their table.

«Not eating, John». From the living room came a long and resigned sigh, ‘do I really have to tell you everything, John?’. The sigh, really, spoke for itself.

«How much times do I need to repeat myself? Digesting slows me down!».

The famed detective furrowed his sparse brows and got back to the solitaire he was playing on his laptop while stretching his long body on the sofa. The laptop was reaching the temperature of a small supernova effectively burning Sherlock’s chest but the man fancied himself the king of stubbornness and kept the device balanced just under his chin while hitting the keys at a faster than light pace. All around him the living room was a colourful explosion of undistinguished mess; books scattered pretty much on every horizontal surface, leftovers from movie night and Sherlock’s own collection of silk dressing gowns was draped all over the furniture giving the already peculiar space a boudoir feeling.

«I’m sure your fine brain could tolerate some _chicken korma_ without losing the ability to win such a trivial game». Retorted John, now comfortably seated on his armchair – he gave up trying to sort out the table – , and ingesting large chunks of spicy food from their go-to Indian takeaway.

«You don’t see the point, John. And, don’t use your medical degree to patronize me». Those sapphire and aquamarine eyes didn’t leave the screen for the entire sentence, a sentence that was pronounced with the uttermost slowness, just his way to let John know the conversation was over.

«As you’ll follow doctor’s orders», chuckled John, who, for once, wanted to have the last word.

A moment of companionable silence followed. The blonde soldier finished his tasty meal without the need to be entertained, pretty much used to and content to do so to enjoy the peaceful habitat which was Baker Street – the muffled sounds of the city beneath them, the clattering of pots and pans of Mrs. Hudson baking some scones for when Mrs. Turner would come over to tea and clicking of the keyboard of Sherlock fingers. John indulged in this rare moment of peace and quiet whilst the raven haired detective acing yet another game. World record broken twice already.

John looked up from his plate. A sly smile surged on Sherlock lips, defeating mere mortals with fickle little minds at a fickle little game like solitaire gave him the same amount of pleasure that solving murders did. «I will probably follow what _my_ doctor orders».

«And who would that be?», John, had, in the meantime, brought his focus back on his food, not willing to hear him go over the entire game of cards he had just played, so was oblivious to the emerging grin on his friend’s face.

«Dusty blonde, average height, pessimistic little bloke now adding some few thousands calories to his already soft figure».

«Sherlock!». John got the blunt critic aimed at his eating habits but took him few instants to realise the rest.

«Your doctor, huh? That’s quite a statement. Since when, do tell, do you even listen to me?». An amused John got up and threw the remaining take out in the bin slowly pacing back to the chair. He sat and buried his ashy locks in the latest number of Sci-Fi today earning a disgusted sneer from his companion who was still looking amused, with a Cheshire grin on his chiselled features.

«John?».

«Yes, Sherlock?», answered looking up from the pages of the magazine, just falsely interested in what was written on it.

«You surprise me every day. Who knew you mastered the fine art of reading upside down», stated the detective who was now in close proximity to John’s chair. The latter promptly reverted the thing and decided it was not worth to pretend and looked straight in those green eyes that drove him so mad.

«I always listen to you, you are _my_ doctor».

«No, you don’t».

«Just because _my_ doctor sometimes is unreasonable». Every _my_ , spoke out with that baritone voice, lower than any other he heard, hit John like an invisible baseball bat. « _My_ doctor tells me to eat, _my_ doctor orders me to sleep, _my_ doctor gives me pain medication, _my_ doctor tells me not to get in dangerous situations. So many orders. But, just -»

He stopped right in the middle of the sentence and turned around, gazing at the busy streets of a midweek London day; the vest he was wearing – teal blue with hints of black – moved swiftly behind him showcasing his toned body, lean muscles, and perfect legs.

«Yes, Sherlock. But, what?».

What was a friendly quarrel, one they had many times over the years they’ve knew each other now had became something which made the air thicker. A white mist of hidden desires that usually rested beneath the carpet of their consciousness all of sudden wrapped the two friends in a forgetting bubble. It was now or never.

John leapt up to reach Sherlock, still standing, looking through the dirty glass of their window, but stopped in his tracks by one lean finger silencing him.

«But», said Sherlock shushing him. «What have I told you about letting me finish my sentences?» John nodded in agreement. «Yes, yes, now, go on». He said, almost out of breath.

«But _my_ doctor never gives me the one order I really need to follow.»

«And what is that?».

Sherlock towered over him, slowly descending upon his ear, pressing his mouth on the soft part of his cheek and whispering:

«Kiss me.»

 


End file.
